Rhymed and unrhymed, form or free, this is where the poetry lives.
The world rushes by
every crisis jockeying
for my attention.
The clock claps its hands
to get my attention and
scoot me out the door.
Everyone has plans
that require my presence
except for the moose.
Outside my window
a moose browses willow buds.
This I understand.
I will shed my skin
wiggle, slip, kick, and it’s gone
as I slide away.
I will dream it first,
deathless reincarnation,
not me, but still me.
I will rise from ash,
stretch newly fledged wings, and fly.
Phoenix without fire.
Her joy will eventually emerge
like a single blade of grass slicing
through slowly melting snow.
Winter’s frost patterns adorn memories
of fond summers and soft falls
but her joy is starting to emerge.
Like velvet pussy willows bravely standing
in a pool of spring sunshine,
back to the wind, she emerges.
Strong, serene, one with the world,
at peace within her skin,
she emerges. Her joy emerges.
Some days I wear a coat of wet blankets.
It becomes me,
with its heavy, sweeping hem
damply swirling the world
into chaos as I pass.
It becomes me,
with its drooping shoulders draped
in a moist muffler,
dripping paindrops from its tassels.
It becomes me,
with a strange, soggy, sincerity,
it becomes me.
And I know if I don’t take it off soon
I’ll become it.
Well, I’ve edited the book, proofed the book, formatted the book, named the book (“Falling Awake and other poems” in case you missed that post), now the cover design…
I’m leaning towards one of my own paintings as a cover. I created/designed my CD covers for my first two CDs so it’s not unprecedented. I’ve uploaded a copy of the proposed cover art and would appreciate any input, just as I have appreciated the input you’ve given me on the poems.
Thank you for coming along with me on this journey!
A plastic bag hangs in a tree,
billowing and startling, popping and snapping
at every gust of wind.
No breeze is too slight to escape
her rustling displeasure.
The constant buffeting tears holes,
deflating her, shredding her to ribbons
until, voiceless, she can do nothing but
flutter helpless streamers,
as though signalling for help
as one by one,
the bio-degradable ribbons
slough away, to whisper a while
amongst the sighing grass before
dissolving into silence.
I awoke this morning with music in my head.
Snippets and riffs from last night jangling
and dangling, misplaced quarter notes hanging
from synapses like clothes left strewn on the floor.
The tiny tintinnabulations telling me.
There is nothing as visceral, as primal, as right
as live music in the night.
Last evening, Bill and I attended the Chetwynd Coffee House – There really is no substitute for live music – no matter how good the recording or how wonderful the sound system – live music will always be an unsurpassably immediate and shared experience. I was also very pleased to have played a few of my songs for the audience and was grateful for their kind welcome.
It’s an act of faith, really,
ordering a seed catalog in January,
at least it is when you live in the north,
rooted deeply in a cherished belief
that this might be the year the spinach doesn’t bolt
when it’s 3 inches tall.
It’s rather like buying a lottery ticket,
Most of the enjoyment lies
in visions of potential,
in dreams of green.
I have missed the morning ritual,
the gentle coaxing of words
from my sleepy subconscious,
the quest for image and rhyme.
The challenge met, there is a void
where discovery used to dwell,
a sense of loss, a loss of senses
honed to a comfortable habit.
There is no challenge now,
only the joy of knowing
the poem is already written.
I just need to remember it.
Perhaps I won’t be writing them every day anymore, but I guess the morning poem is a habit now.
What is a year but an unwieldy barge
that drifts on a river of dreams?
What is desire but a broken oar
that we use to stem the stream?
What are words but a patchwork sail
that occasionally catches a breeze?
What is hope but a tattered chart
of strange, exotic seas?
But the river is wide, and I’ll sail my barge
I’ll ply my oar, and search my charts,
I’ll raise my sail at each passing wind
and if I see you flounder, friend,
I’ll heave to and lend a hand
and together we’ll set sail and
disappear into the setting sun,
Until another year is done.
#366
Linda Studley 